


Of a Feather

by chewblebee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Angels vs. Demons, Aziraphale has an existential crisis as per usual, Demons, Fallen Angels, Heaven vs Hell, M/M, Pre-Canon, Violence, good omens - Freeform, like kind of canon but not really, where they meet before eden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 02:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20074438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewblebee/pseuds/chewblebee
Summary: Battles are meant to be won.That is what Aziraphale has been taught since the fall. It has been hammered into every angel's brain, over and over again. Fight for heaven, fight for humanity below, and kill all evil things that get in the way....So why does he find it so difficult?





	1. Chapter 1

The camp where they are stationed is nothing to marvel at. An old building that used to be a warehouse, as can be deduced by the expansive rooms that felt more like concrete caves than a man-made structure. Well, man-made-ish. Man had yet to make anything, you see. In fact, man had just barely been made in the first place. So, without man making the things we will claim to look man-made… who made it?

Nothing did. The answer is simple: it doesn’t exist. The building is merely a shell of a place, a safe haven for warriors to convene before the epic battle to begin the everlasting war. It is more of a concept, but we will choose to see it as a concrete building. All exit signs attached and illuminating some old oil stains on the ground from the leaky forklifts that once (never) existed here. 

Fluorescent lights shine harshly down on those below, hundreds upon hundreds of warriors all doing various things in preparation for what is to come. Some sit, some stand, others brandish their weapons or adjust their neckties to avoid rashes. 

One doesn’t move, he merely holds a sword and stares ahead.

Were he human, the lights would be giving him an awful headache. Funnily enough, he feels as though he may be getting one nonetheless. 

“Are you alright?” Asks a firm voice beside him.

He would startle had he not already been aware of her presence. Instead, he merely turns his head, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

“Anael. Hello, er. What did you say?”

“I asked if you were alright? You seem a bit…” She gracefully waves a hand through the air. Everything she did was graceful, he suspects. She had an air about her… or perhaps that was all of them. They were angels after all, so the whole lot of them should be graceful, even if he didn’t feel it in himself. Currently he felt a bit like a flounder on dry land. That species had just been invented a few hours ago. Quite an interesting fish, too.

“Ah,” He tilts the sword in his hand, watching the flames dance upon it with every movement, “Certainly. Just trying to mentally prepare is all! For our victory, that is. Surely we’ll win, don’t you think?” He hesitates, “I mean, we must.”

An odd expression crosses Anael’s face, “Yes, I suppose we will. I don’t believe The Creator would allow everything to be thrown away so soon after it’s been made.” 

He relaxes slightly, but feels his mind stir again and his jaw tighten.

“Aziraphale.”

His eyes flick to her, “Yes?”

Her expression was a mixture of compassion and the look of someone who was talking to a very stubborn child, “Is something else bothering you?”

He sighs.

“We’re…” The words are suddenly trying their hardest not to leave his mouth, “We are... _fighting_ our brothers and sisters! We’re supposed to kill them! They are – were – our friends. I just… I…” He stops, unsure of how to properly voice the deep anguish he feels coiling inside of him. Hundreds fell with Lucifer. Hundreds of the ones he’d known since the beginning of everything. From the moment he had been created he had known them. He’d known their beauty and their kindness, as well as the personalities and duties of each.

Now, he didn’t even know their names, for it had been stripped from each as they fell and erased from time.

It hurts like fire in his chest and made tears well in his eyes.

Anael’s eyes turn soft and understanding, the same pain Aziraphale feels is written in every line of her expression.

“I understand, Aziraphale. I don’t think any of us truly want to accept that it’s them on the other side. Some have purposefully denied it to make things easier. But it is for the greater good of humanity. The fewer demons who are able to escape into the world, the less chaos that can brew. Many will remain, of course. The Great Plan must still come to pass one day, we all know that.” She looks down at her own sword, the hilt shimmering with grace, “It must be done.”

He swallows harshly and nods, “So it must.” 

It isn’t until after Anael leaves that he turns back to the light above him. He nearly begins praying, but stops once he realizes he’s not sure what to say.

They wait for another day, the room of angels growing increasingly more antsy with each minute that passes. No one, except those who are higher in the chain of command, have any idea what they are actually waiting for. Even those who know, namely the Archangels, are anxiously picking at their robes or combing fingers through course feathers. This does nothing to calm Aziraphale’s already high levels of stress.

The archangel Gabriel paces while Michael stands stone-still a few feet beside him, carefully out of range of any giant, golden wings should they extend. Aziraphale certainly doesn’t think about how amusing it would be to see that. Definitely not.

“Michael better watch out or she’ll be spitting feathers for the rest of the day.” Anael’s voice pipes up from beside him, a grin apparent in her voice.

He laughs.

Then, the room fills with red.

Hundreds of angels straighten, going silent and watching the red alarms flare before shutting off and turning back to the awful, piercing white. The room is silent as they turn to Michael.

“It is time.” She says, her voice carrying, “As warriors of heaven, you know your duties. Be strong. Show mercy only to those deserving,” Her voice tilts with venom, “because where we fight today, there will be none. Fight for heaven.” The command rings, bouncing off of the air conditioning units in the far corners. A few angels huddled around it shiver.

Gabriel claps his hands and smiles, “Let’s move it people! Places to go, demons to smite!” The smile drops and the final command is spoken, “Fight.”

Across fields of rotted shrugs, or perhaps they were parking lots with broken shopping carts, another group was rallying. More warriors for a different cause, each with a much more sinister goal in mind than their fluorescent counterparts. Mangled, twisted faces and dark eyes that once held compassion for every star and being. Some breathed life into plants, others had played with their siblings, tugging on wings and laughing. Aziraphale would tell you their laughter had reminded him of splashing water and warm sunlight. 

They crouch, mangled legs set to spring once the word was given. At the front stands the leader. Lucifer, Satan, The Morning Star, God’s favorite, bringer of sin and the first adversary. He stands, noble and unmoving, still radiant in all of his beauty but twisted from the Fall. An aura of suctioned light surrounds him and dark, crimson wings float extended behind him like a cape, the feathers skimming the dry, cracking dirt the army stands upon.

“It does not have to be this way.” He says, voice like wind over sheer cliffs. Every word brings with it the feeling of looking over the edge into the churning deep below, “I can call them off. Your plan… it can be stopped as well. We can keep the world as it is.”

A whisper, faint and magnificent all in one, slips past his ear, “You chose this, my son.”

“I chose nothing!” He says firmly, “_You_ did this. You choose humanity over us! We are your first! Your children! And yet you let their filth taint our lands!”

“No, my son, I love you all equally, you must understand–“

“No.” His voice shakes with thunder, the crowd behind him shifts with uncertainty, “You do not.” He turns to the army, wings flaring as a sword appears in his hand, black as the night, “Go. Kill all that you see.”

The once silent crowd now grows thunderous, the roaring cries for blood, for justice of what they once were. Amalgamations of tattered wings, broken bones and bubbling skin all rush forward, running into the fog that surrounds them.

One chews on his lip, hesitating for only a moment, before following.

Aziraphale shifts where he stands, the formation of angels tight as they stare into the dark mist ahead of them. A single light post illuminates the dusty lanes of the parking spot before fading into nothingness. The rustle of feathers echoes with every gust of wind as the fog creeps closer. Beside him, Anael swallows, her brow creasing in concentration. 

Nobody dares move.

Aziraphale thinks about everything that lead up to this moment. The eons of time spent with those by his side, as well as those who crawl ever further through the mist. He hasn’t seen them yet. Not many have. Many of the unfortunate beings who witnessed a demon didn’t return to tell the tale, but of the few who did were too distraught to speak of it. Crying, they would attempt to describe what they had seen, only to fail and revert back to a grieving mess. These angels were then sent to be the equivalent of heaven’s janitors.

In his opinion, the worst part is the lost memories. He wants to remember their faces, their love, and smiles. Their names, forever gone. He misses them like an ache in his soul but he can’t seem to pin down _who_ he misses.

Overall, he has decided, the fighting may not be worth it.

It is a horrible thought, a near traitorous one, but he can’t help but allow it to sit, heavy, in the back of his mind. Demons were creatures just as they were, and they were once angels too. Were they truly beyond saving? Beyond compassion? Perhaps he was extending too much hope, but was that not his job? 

Those twisted faces once held smiles brighter than the morning sun. They created stars and sand. They braided hair and stroked uncooperative feathers. Gentle hands that, if Aziraphale focuses hard enough, he can feel framing his face and it takes everything in him not to smile on instinct. How can one miss something they hardly remember? It is absurd, but entirely too real for every angel. 

Some, despite their love for the lost siblings, are filled with bitterness. The betrayal tainting their fond memories, or what was left of those memories. Some wept, overcome by grief. Others, like Aziraphale, merely froze. He can’t quite pin down where he sits emotionally, perhaps he is somewhere between mourning and anger. A mixture of those around him, but it doesn’t seem right to outright admit it. 

In reality, he just feels lonely.

Of course, there should be no reason for him to feel this way. Since the Fall he has been surrounded by others, comforted and cared for, just as he has done to others. The Fall, if anything, brought the remaining angels closer together, their fear that more would follow permeating their minds. 

Still… it feels… hollow. Like a piece of him fell with them.

He stares out at the fog and sees a movement beside him.

“You’re trembling, Anael.” He says softly, tilting his head to meet her gaze. Her form just barely shakes even as her expression remains stoic.

“You as well.”

His eyes travel down to his hands. He grips his sword tighter.

“May I… say something?” He asks her, voice carefully quiet.

“Of course, brother.” 

“Do you really believe…” He glances to his other side where another angel stands, gaze carefully trained forward. “Do you think this is worth it?” 

She meets his eyes, her own soft white ones expressive to the point where he knows her answer before she has even said it. She never gets the chance to speak.

As she opens her mouth, a tendril of _something_ appears from the darkness. The archangel Michael raises her sword, and it begins.


	2. Chapter 2

The first sound that registers in Aziraphale’s mind is thunder. It crashes across the sky, making angels and demons alike jump in surprise. The origin of the noise is to his left, where Michael and Lucifer stand, swords crossed and gazes sharp. What seems like sparks fly off of the blades.

Michael’s mouth moves, but Aziraphale cannot hear even if he wishes to. He knows she is offering Lucifer another chance, a second life with them if he were to change his ways. He would be welcomed back with open arms, as well as the others that fell. Even if they don’t remember, perhaps they could make new memories together as humanity blossomed. They had eternity, after all, there was no use in spending it in bloodshed.

The demons stir restlessly behind them, some creeping out into the light of heaven, only to draw back in something akin to discomfort. Aziraphale looks at them, at their weak, twisted forms, and feels as though he ought to help them. Kindness goes a long way, after all. He only needs to outstretch a hand, a silent offering of peace to them… then they can come back and everything will be right again…

“Stop!” The command snaps him out of his haze. He looks down at his hand, bringing it back to himself as if the empty space before him were poison. Around him, many angels do the same, their faces damp with tears.

Gabriel scowls, his voice still echoing in their ears, “They’re tempting you. Don’t be foolish.”

Aziraphale makes eye contact with a demon, their eyes white and yellowed around the edges. Their appearance looks much of the same. Pale skin punctured with bones, decaying into sulfur. He shivers and looks back at Michael…

Just in time to see her get stabbed.

Time slows for a moment, both sides coils ready to spring. Beings of all natures watch in astonishment as Lucifer growls, his teeth bared, and yanks the sword out of Michael’s shoulder. She takes one step backwards, blinking.

Swords are flying before she hits the ground.

The next few moments are a bit of a blur.

Angels do not need training, per se. They are born with a natural sense for many things. Singing, for example, is a naturally given skill, as well as a basic understanding of physics and social aptitude. Angels are born fully formed, you see, as the concept of human children has yet to be invented. It will be within the next few days, but for now “children” is a meaningless term. Angels do not develop many new skills that they do not already have.

That being said, angels know how to fight on an instinctual level.

The first bloodshed, however lethal or relatively harmless it may be, set those instincts into motion on both sides. Demons slash with claws and fangs, tails whipping like barbed wire in every direction. Angels drew in their grace, the glow of it overpowering their eyes and opening new ones that were normally kept closed. Hundreds upon thousands of eyes all reflecting nearly blinding halos which shine around them brighter than the sun. The seraphim glowed brightest of all, illuminating the parking lot and banishing more fog with their intensity.

Within moments two groups had become one. A mass of sharp and powerful things being flung every which way. At one point, through his concentrated movements, Aziraphale watched an angel be thrown across the entirety of the lot, losing sight of them a second later. 

Anael stayed near him in the beginning, but as the fight went on they lost each other in favor of maintaining ground. He had seen her take the head off of a demon, or, at least, what he suspected to be the head. It had been quite a frightful thing to look at.

Still, as he fought his way through the hoard, his robes quickly becoming bloodsoaked… he couldn’t bring himself to kill them. He should. He definitely should be killing them. Of course, he was doing his fair share of blocking and cutting, but never any finishing blows. Nothing lethal.

It was their eyes, or perhaps their auras. They were trapped in more ways than one and he could do nothing to help.

For a moment, as he holds his blade against the throat of a creature that vaguely resembles a crocodile, he considers if it would be more merciful to kill them. One look into their soul and he shakes his head, hitting the demon in a way that will incapacitate them for some time as his mouth draws into a thin line. It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

He catches a glimpse of Anael and quickly makes his way to her, cutting off some limbs on his way in an attempt to quiet the guilty, traitorous thoughts rushing through his mind. 

“An-” A figure steps in front of him, tall, powerful and glowing. Aziraphale stops, “Gabriel?”

“Aziraphale,” He says in greeting, voice tense. In one of his arms is Michael, who is standing, however shakily. His other arm extends out, impaling an oncoming demon and quickly killing it, “How’s it going?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker past him, trained on Anael while she bats away a demon with her wing, who then begins to rip at the feathers. Aziraphale winces.

“Great. It’s, er, going well! Lots and lots of smiting. Would you excuse me?” He points to the hoard quickly approaching Anael, giving an apologetic smile as he moves past the archangels.

“Keep up the good work!” Comes a cheery call. It takes everything in Aziraphale not to grimace.

Anael waves at him, strain evident in her features despite her poise. The demon who had been clawing away at her feathers is now in a crumpled heap on the ground, sliced in half and oozing things Aziraphale would rather not think about. She has another demon’s neck in her hand, holding it above her as it tears at her arm.

He gives a tight smile in returns and raises his sword to a nearby adversary, singing it with the flames. It yelps and rushes away, causing two others nearby to give nervous glances the angel’s way. Around them, dozens of smaller fights are unfolding, angels holding off multiple demons at a time. Somewhere, someone, or something, started a small ring of hellfire, which is managing to keep the angels away from the sides. With every second it grows a bit larger and more demons begin to seek shelter within it, much to the irritation of the angels surrounding it.

If Aziraphale were being honest, he expected a bit more from the depths of hell. Perhaps the fight will be over quickly and he needn’t have blood on his hands.

The moment the thought appears in his mind he curses himself for his optimism, for a second later he is greeted with the sight of another wave of demons emerging from the fog. He would groan out loud if it would make even the slightest of difference. He continues to block and attack, his stomach dropping more and more as the numbers of enemies refuse to decrease. It seemed as though with every devil he brought down, two more would appear and take its place. 

At some point, he feels familiar wings brush against him as him and Anael meet back-to-back. Another angel fights nearby, wielding two swords as they cut down enemy after enemy. 

“Aziraphale…” Anael begins, only to be interrupted by a demon trying to crawl up her leg.

“Yes?” He answers, kicking it away for her as she swipes at another one.

“Are we winning?”

That, he thinks, is a very good question.

“Uh, I’m, er, I-I’m not quite sure.”

They leave it at that, both aware of the other’s answer but refusing to acknowledge it further. It becomes something of a pattern. Aziraphale will kick or push a demon towards Anael, occasionally hitting or cutting them hard enough to incapacitate them, and she will deliver the finishing blow. Ten, twenty, fifty demons slain and still the numbers seem to grow. Not once does Aziraphale look into their eyes.

At some point he realizes that they are both panting, which is odd enough on its own. Angels aren’t supposed to get tired, are they?

That is when he realizes how warm he feels.

_Hellfire._

He turns around and marvels at the sight of the wall of flame creeping towards them. He had lost track of the fire, pushing it to the back of his mind to focus on the more pressing matters. That being: the demons currently trying to get him into a chokehold. Now he can’t believe he was able to ignore it for so long as it curls the air around him and turns puddles of blood and ooze into steam. Hellfire burns hotter than the sun. It is a death sentence for ethereal beings such as himself.

And he is standing a mere 10 yards from it.

Panic sets in and he spins back around to alert Anael, his gaze quickly settling on the massive hoard of demons closing in on them. Somehow, in their squirmish, they had managed to get themselves trapped. A blockade of demons stopping them from going back to the main fight. Now they find themselves isolated and surrounded. The third angel with two swords is gone.

Aziraphale has never had any sort of spectacular sense of intuition, but now, watching the flames illuminate the dark fog above them and shimmer in the demons’ cold, broken eyes, he thinks they may be in a bit of trouble.

“Anael, dear, I believe we may need to fly.” He suggests, eyeing the fire.

She looks up and Aziraphale watches as she pieces the situation together. She knocks a demon aside and nods, “Right.”

Their wings extend, raising high above the demons in preparation for the starting flap to pick them off the ground.

The next few moments happen too quickly for him, each event occurring in a sequence too fast for even him to follow. To begin, as two sets of wings beat down upon the asphalt, he hears Anael shriek. It is a painful, gurgling noise that sounds like someone ripped it from her throat forcefully. Aziraphale is in the process of lifting off of the ground, his feet rising up, when he sees what caused her outcry. Behind them, the fire had spread faster than he had thought. Demons stand around it, coaxing it closer and laughing, pointing to the scene that makes Aziraphale freeze in horror.

The flames lick at Anael’s wings, catching on the feathers and spreading. Her screams echo across the lot, catching the attention of other angels who are too preoccupied to help. Those who see it call out her name, attempting to take flight only to be pulled down by the demons who grab at their wings or ankles.

This all happens within a single moment, and in the next Aziraphale is diving forward to meet her. The wall of fire behind them illuminates the scene now as Anael’s grace flickers. He reaches out a hand to grab her, to heal her, to do _something–_

And suddenly he is being thrown in the opposite direction.

Anael’s screams grow quiet, as well as the sounds of the battle, and any light of grace or hellfire alike seems to fade, overcome by fog. He is no longer flying purposefully, rather, he is falling. A weight on his wings drags him down, tugging him further into the surrounding fog and distant nothingness. And _tugging_ it is. It grips tight to his feathers, holding firm when he tries to move his wings. Somewhere in the process of all this his sword has been knocked from his hand.

He is suddenly, horrifyingly aware of _claws._

Battles, from this moment on and into the end of time, will forever be known as cauldrons for death and pain. Upon entering this fight, angels and demons alike were somewhat aware of the fact that death was a very real, and very possible, outcome for every individual. Having to be open to the fact that you might die very, very soon was not a very nice thing to admit to oneself, so some, like Aziraphale and many angels of his same ranking, chose to push the possibility to the back of his mind. It was there, a small smudge on the wall of his mind that he had chosen to hang up a nice painting in front of. 

Now, as his back connects with the ground, wings splayed out on either side of him, and claws wrap firmly around his neck, he looks at the dark smudge more closely. Accepting it and giving it enough time to grow.

The only thing he thinks, or prays, more like, is _please let it be quick._

He tenses, eyes squeezed tight in preparation and wishing for the familiar weight of his swords hilt in his hand. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to see the humans. There was supposed to be a garden, filled to the brim with magnificent trees and waterfalls and something called _gorillas_, which everyone seemed very excited to see. Before the battle animals were being created left and right in anticipation for this event, angels gossiping about their favorites and sharing new ideas. Some even speculated how the humans would look.

Aziraphale would miss it all. He felt his eyes brim with tears and opened them, hoping to at least get one glance of heaven before his death…

Instead, his vision was filled with _yellow._


	3. Chapter 3

Blue eyes meet yellow, the cold, unblinking stare of the being reflecting far off lights from the fire they flew out of. Distantly, Aziraphale can hear the sounds of the battle, the clash of swords and deep growls echoing into the fog that shelters them. Everything seems muffled here, it feels damp and… wrong. Just wrong. It is as though he instinctively knows that he isn’t meant to be here. Every part of him screams for him to return to heaven, to the safety of soft lighting and open, caring arms.

His wing twitches in longing and the demon’s fingers close tighter, cutting off a small noise that had tried to escape his throat. Its legs straddle Aziraphale’s waist, pinning him down with sleek, sharp skales tinted in red. A powerful tail swishes in the air behind it.

“Move and I’ll kill you.” The being hisses through its teeth.

Its voice, underneath the hissed whisper, is a deep, feral growl that sends fear careening through the angel. It hits Aziraphale that these may be his last moments and he wonders, briefly, whether or not Anael made it. Doubt immediately answers the question for him and the following pang of grief strikes him so suddenly it seems to create a pit in his chest that aches with each breath he takes. 

Tears begin to spill onto his cheeks unbidden by him, even as he fights to maintain his composure, he knows that it is a losing battle. Cracks form in his posture until he finds himself a shaking mess under what will soon be his killer. 

The demon squints, teeth flashing.

“Not much of an angel, are you? You could have killed me by now.” It grins now, with too many teeth in its mouth and fangs as sharp as the sword he once carried, “Why don’t you, then? Fight back. Kick and ssssscream.” The word drags out as a forked tongue flickers between them.

Aziraphale lets out a choked sob and shakes his head. He wants to struggle. He wants to thrash and kick and scream, scream so loud that the fog disappears and the sunlight returns and Anael will hear him and kiss his cheek. She liked to do that to everyone as a way of greeting, back in heaven. She always had a bounce in her step after she did it, as though the small action filled her with air. 

He startles when he realizes he is already referring to her in past tense. The thought sends a fresh wave of pained, choked back sobs.

“...No?” The demon tilts its head, the sharp horns following the movement, “Why are you crying, little angel?” The word slithers off its tongue like a curse, “Isss it becaussse you’re ssscared? Too afraid I’ll break that niccce little halo of yoursss? Or tear out your featherss and leave your wingsssss clipped? Maybe…” It leans closer, “You’re afraid you’ll become like _me._”

It is a fear of his, as it is with any angel since the Great Fall. Lucifer had been the favorite, the golden child and a leader among his siblings. Aziraphale had talked to him, gazed into his kind eyes and seen the smile that had radiated warmth. It was a cruel joke that Satan was the only one anyone remembered. It served as a warning, he speculated, to show what was lost so it may not happen again.

He has tried to imagine, in the few days following the Fall, what it would be like. _Falling._ Would it hurt? It had to. Having the grace of God herself forcibly ripped from your very core… it couldn’t be too comfortable. Demons had dark, discolored wings. Some black, like the one before him. Some were red or sulfuric yellow. Others were stripped bare of feathers or, in worse cases, were hardly even recognizable as wings. He isn’t sure whether the fall itself caused the injuries or the escapades of hell. Either way, it looked unpleasant.

So, in short, yes, he is very afraid of the creature hunched over him. He is afraid of many things, at the moment. Those eyes which hover above him, boring into his soul and reflecting light like a wild animal in the headlights of a careening car. The claws around his neck make him shiver with fear and the dark, looming wings that block out any possible light only add to the isolation he feels.

Aziraphale stares into its slitted eyes, seconds dragging on for what feels like hours. Hundreds of feet away he hears a skreik, whether it came from his side or not he isn’t sure.

Did Anael scream? Yes, yes she did. Very loudly, in fact. Louder than he’s heard anyone scream before. Why had she backed into the hellfire? Why had those demons dragged her down? They should have fought harder, or, more accurately, Aziraphale should have fought harder. He should have been more brutal, more ruthless just like his siblings were. They were doing all of this for a purpose… for the greater good. Why couldn’t he just live up to the expectations? 

_It should have been me._

The thought drifts forward, unbidden, in his mind. It takes him by surprise at first, but he quickly settles into it, his tears turning hot against his skin. It should have been him. Anael was a good angel. She had been good at her job, kind to others. She had been so many things he wasn’t. He hadn’t helped her and the blame was entirely on him now. In his efforts to avoid killing he’d dipped his hands in blood anyway. It felt like acid burning under his skin, crawling up and out. Maybe he deserved to fall, since he had practically killed one of his own. No, not fall. Maybe something worse. Something more permanent.

His halo flickers dangerously and he lies still once more, stormy blue eyes glaring into the other’s. The seconds continue to tick by. The demon’s expression remains firm as steel in the midst of their staring contest, the only movement coming from Aziraphale’s stunted breathing.

It lasts long enough, that, unexpectedly, he feels a pang of irritation.

“If,” his voice is hoarse from tears, he clears it and watches as the demon raises an eyebrow, “If you would hurry it up, I believe we could both be doing much more efficient things than…” he motions between them, “this.”

One raised eyebrow turns to two. 

“You… what? You… want me to kill you?” It questions incredulously, words slow. Aziraphale glances at its scales, watching as they reflect the now flickering light of his halo.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, “_No._ I would very much not like to die.” The words feel sour on his lips, “However, this is getting a bit ridiculous.” At least he has stopped crying, although his body still shakes with remnants of shock and perhaps a bit of fear. He attempts a quiet sniff, the noise sounding much too loud in his ears.

“Ridiculous.” The demon repeats.

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t you killed me?”

“I lost my sword when you so rudely tackled me out of the air.”

“_Rudely?!_”

“Also,” Aziraphale continues, feigning confidence now to distract himself from the shivers taking over his wings, “I don’t have a very keen sense of…” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully as his stomach roils, “of slaughtering things.”

The demon blinks, turning the information over in his mind, “And that means?”

Aziraphale huffs a breath, looking away for the first time and back to the battle. Flashes of light illuminate the fog from hellfire and streaks of lightning.

“I… I don’t like killing things. Especially over something so… so, uh. Well, pointless.” At the other’s unimpressed expression, he continues quickly, “What I mean is that, it seems rather barbaric. All this fighting. We were all family once. I don’t see why we can’t just…” 

“Coexissst?” It says, voice contemplative. 

Aziraphale shrugs, wincing as the claws around his neck push harder with the movement, scraping him just enough to leave a knick. A small drop of blood drips out, as well as some of his angelic grace. His mouth tightens at the feeling.

To his surprise, the demon blinks and immediately takes his hands away. Within the next second, its sitting, crouched, beside him. “I’m not apologizing for that.” It mumbles, hunching its shoulders defensively, its legs folded as if it were a cobra ready to strike at any moment, “You’re the one who moved.”

The angel sits up, touching a hand to his neck, “Mm.” He hums, eyeing the demon with distrust and something akin to amusement, the feelings of panic ebbing away with some distance between them.

Grief still sits heavy in his core, weighing him down. It shows physically as well: his wings drooping with his shoulders. His hands, usually so ready to touch things, to experience the world and the beauty in it, sit limp on the asphalt. The anger parts ways, slowly moving aside for a chilling numbness that begins in his palms and spreads. He is suddenly drowning in it, a ringing filling his ears that he cannot quite pinpoint. It’s overwhelming.

They sit, listening to the sounds of conflict echo on through the fog as they watch the other. Suspicion hangs heavy in the air, nearly tangible between them. Aziraphale frantically wracks his mind for a way to break it. Anything to distract him.

“Aziraphale.”

The demon frowns, “Bless you.” It nearly gags as the phrase leaves its mouth.

He rolls his eyes, “That’s my name. Aziraphale. I thought I might as well introduce myself since you attempted to murder me.”

The other tenses, shrugging into itself, “I wassn’t actually going to…” it grumbles, managing to look sheepish. 

Silence hangs over them again, this time it is Aziraphale who raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“And what?” The demon bites back.

“What is yours?” The angel asks flatly. 

“Like I’d tell _you._ I may have been born yesterday but I’m not ssssstupid.”

Aziraphale makes a noise of disapproval and brings his wings closer to himself. There was no reason to be rude, he merely wanted to be on equal ground with the demon… 

The demon.

A _demon._

He’s talking to a demon as if it’s sunday brunch. Bickering with it after it attempted to kill him. He should be running back to the fight to help his friends. To save heaven, if nothing else. What he was currently doing was avoiding the fight to begin all fights.The first, and most important war for the foreseeable future. Heaven was in jeopardy and he was conversing with the adversary! 

But really… did heaven need saving? Perhaps — and maybe he was getting overly optimistic again — all demons were like the one he sat with now. A few kind words could go a long way, after all. Maybe they could _remember._ Together.

He shuts down the thoughts quickly, his gaze flicking over the blackened wings of his associate. Thinking like that was dangerous and he knows it. It was general knowledge since the Fall: don’t question. He sighs sharply and looks back to the fog, sitting up a bit straighter.

“Thinking of leaving so soon?” The voice draws him out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the fog. Distantly, thunder rumbles again. 

“Hm? Oh…” Aziraphale stares at a bloodstain on his robe. He’ll have to get a new one after this is all done with. “I, uh… I just… I think I should get back to-to the fight.” He moves to stand, wobbly getting to his feet and brushing off his garments in an attempt to look semi-presentable. As if he hasn’t just been rolling on the ground with an enemy and fighting a war against literal hellspawn.

The previously mentioned enemy watches, silent, as he does this. Its eyes calculating. 

It makes the back of Aziraphale’s neck prickle. 

“I’d better be off. Perhaps we’ll meet again. Unless…” Unless the demon is killed in the battle. Or unless Aziraphale dies. Unless Aziraphale is stationed in heaven. Unless, unless, unless…

“Unless ineffability dictates otherwise.” He finishes, giving the other a strained, albeit polite smile before turning away and back toward the flashing lights behind the fog. He takes a few steps forward, feeling a knot form in his stomach. Yellow eyes stay trained on him, unblinking and eerie in the hazy darkness. Suddenly, his self-assured facade slips away and he watches as a new tower of hellfire erupts from the ground, giving the fog a warm, deadly glow. His feet stop as he watches, frozen by some unnameable emotion that makes him grip his robe. 

“You don’t have to.”

He spins around, blue eyes once again meeting yellow where the demon sits a few meters away, his legs crossed and eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. 

“Sorry?” Aziraphale asks.

“I said you don’t have to. Go back, I mean. You can just… stay here. They won’t look until the fight is over.” The demon — and he should really learn its name — spreads out it’s black wings, scales and claws glinting with every flash of light. 

“Oh I-I, I don’t think that’s a very good idea…”

“Why’s that?” It counters, raising that blasted eyebrow once again.

“Because…” There are many reasons why that is an awful, horrible, traitorous idea. If Aziraphale were in a different situation, or perhaps a better state of mind, he could list off twenty reasons from the top of his head. All of it would build into the fact that he may fall from grace because of it all. He would fall and truly feel the loss of it all. What he felt during the fall of his family, what he feels now, after it, and the grief he now carries wouldn’t even compare to what it would feel like to sever from the host.

But all he can manage to say is: “You’re a demon. And I’m an angel.” As if that isn’t the most obvious thing about this entire situation. It sounds weak even to him.

“Sssso? Look,” the other sits up straighter, holding its hands out as if they held the explanation in them, “so long as we’re keeping each other busy, we’re technically doing our jobs. I’m not off killing people on your side and you’re not smiting any of mine. They,” It motions back to the fight, a sound akin to a grenade going off echoing from it, “Are doing it anyways. We’re just two less problems for both sides.” It puffs its chest out, looking rather pleased with itself. “Neither of us have to do our jobs, but we’re not really _not_ doing them either. See m’point?”

Funnily enough, he does. The angel considers this for a moment and the longer it turns over in his mind, the less consequences he sees for it.

He speaks slowly, testing it out as the words form, “It’s not as though they would know…” 

The demon grins devilishly. 

Aziraphale squints in response, pointing an accusatory finger, “You are _not_ tempting me into this. I am doing this upon my own volition! I’ll have you know I considered it before you even mentioned it.”

“‘Course.”

“And! And this,” He motions around them, “is strictly business. It is merely convenient. Nothing more.”

“Never said anything otherwise.”

“And we will never speak of this again. Nor shall we meet again. Heaven forbid.”

“If it helps you sleep at night.”

Aziraphale wrings his hands in front of him, giving a curt nod to the fog, “Good.”

“Great.” The demon replies, grin still cemented onto its expression.

“But…”

The grin falters momentarily, “But?”

Now, it is the angel’s turn to smile, “I have one condition–”

“Oh, so now you’re the one making deals with the devil?”

“–You must tell me your name.”

The groan of irritation travels through the mist as the demon rubs its eyes, “You really are the most annoying angel I’ve ever met.”

“...You must not have met Gabriel.”

There’s a moment of heavy silence between them, broken only by the occasional sound of clashing metal or fallen bodies... before they both snicker.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in years, so I'm very excited to get back into it! Hope you all enjoy!


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